Hi everyone! Shea doesn't know it yet, but I'm writing the introduction to THIS blog post. I should probably introduce myself. My name is Laura, and I am the best friend/editor/chef to the author we're all here to read about! A couple of blog posts ago Shea interviewed me as her editor, and tonight I have the great honor and privilege of turning the tables on her. (I'm so excited :)) So welcome to our chairless world of words, expect the impossible, enjoy yourself, and *please* keep your seatbelt fastened at all times.

How did you get started in authoring?

I think writing itself is a craft of both nature and nurture. It would be attractive to say writers are "born," but I think its more complex than that. I think storytellers are born. Those with natures of the DESIRE to express and illuminate what burns inside them are born. Some people quench that desire with writing, others with art and music. Film, too. So Young Shea was not born with a quill in her hand, although the folding wheelchair did come out first. I'm still searching my feelings about this.

Before I wrote, I was always telling stories. I'd have complicated little plots going on in a simple game of Pet Shop (little furniture pieces and characters), in which my friends and I would adopt a single character and impersonate it for hours as the story unveiled, improv style. I'd play in the backyard under the same theme of designing a character and, like a stage actor, staying in-character for the entire duration of the game. It was the liberation of this kind of play that nurtured the author in me. After that, when I really started writing, I could knock out page by page of the little stories I created, all with very serious undertones despite the amateur experience, and was fascinated with how the writing filled up the page like a real book. The first time I ever printed out a story was at my Great Aunt's house -- one about a polar bear -- and I cut out a Cap'n Crunch cereal box to use as the cover. I was so proud and made my mom read it to me. Poor Mom. So that's really how I got started. I was nurtured by the nature. I was engrossed in the desire, and kindled by the burning of what was needing to be told inside me.

What motivates you to write?

Emotion, dignity, and passion were all covered in the previous question. Let's get a little more practical.

The force that physically motivates me to sit down (that's hilarious) and write is Laura. I constantly watch the clock to make sure I am maintaining a durable pace that she won't fall asleep on and fulfill the obligation I feel to provide her with one chapter every night, allowing for at least a 20 minute discussion window afterwards. Without her, I am sure I would have written half the books I've done now, as there would have been no one waiting for an attachment, no one to inform were I to put it off for a night if I wasn't in the mood. Words don't tumble from a writer's hands in ecstasy all the time. Often times I stall on the computer, write a sentence and stall again, stare at a blank page, and just feel stuck. But the longer I'm stuck, the stucker I get. Laura helps me through that.

Another motivation is my dad, who calls almost every night so I can read him a chapter over the phone. I speed things up as I could never tell him I don't have one for him.

Would you please explain cookies to the world at large? Maybe that way people will start giving them.

Cookies are compliment tidbits given to an author which the author nibbles on like Morph from Treasure Planet and becomes entirely, contently absorbed in, permitting you to throw whatever abuses and criticisms you need to at anything else in their work.

gif courtesy of f---yesanimatedgifs.tumblr.com

It is entirely forbidden to administer criticism to a writer on something so precious to them without supplying said cookie. Laura is excellent at proving Marty-adamia nut Cookies and Peanut Benner. Chocomir Chip is another favorite. (Really people, you need to read my books to get these AWESOME inside jokes. What more convincing could you possibly need?)

Tell us something surprising and unexpected about writing!

I like the little exclamation point, Laura. I'm feeling the excitement. Something surprising and unexpected? Not all authors are dashingly arrogant. NO REALLY, IT'S TRUE.

Kidding. What I think might surprise you is that, contrary to popular belief, authors do NOT need to travel to foreign countries to "study" for their next book. This is a lie you have been charmed into believing. I wrote about the arctic, Africa, Egypt, Australia, Persia, India, Turkey, mythic-Ireland, and England. I have not left this cramped, cozy, tiny little shnook (Shea nook) in the entire time I wrote that.

That's right, John. I know that cruise to Istanbul was NOT necessary to your next Brotherband book.

Gosh I mean...what's a rainbow's process? How does a flower bloom under the morning dew? How does a UNICORN assert its grace into every fable and tapestry? What is a unicorn's process, Laura?

I usually have to gear up a little before I write or whenever I get stuck, and this persists of my iPod -- usually book-related songs that can be found in the Fun Stuff tab -- and an ample area to pace. I have to pace. I have to be moving. Even when I am mentally plotting to music in the car, I will pause my iPod when we stop at a red light and resume when the car moves. I need to see the world moving by and propelling my thoughts. The movement is what makes me feel I am a part of it.

Would you like more done with your stories after publishing? Fanfic? Movies?

It is all I think about when the colors flash on me in a movie theater. Film is such an astounding pulse on the world and on us as a people. It's like I said before -- humanity has a pulse as it is. Writers are the ones who press down two fingers and feel it. I am quite certain, however, that I would be the film industry's most loathed author as I would be on set every day, possibly sleep there, be a part of every audition, and give the actor(s) portraying Marty, Ben, Caz, and Xander private lessons. I'm THAT dedicated.

For fanfic, I encourage it. I encourage anything that gets people writing. I would be honored and would most certainly peruse the work and smile, laugh (warmly), or -- yes, we all know it's true -- cringe upon occasion. But I'd love every minute. Perhaps there's have to be a Fanfic Friday christened in my future.

I also hope my stories could be used for good post-publication in the areas of charity and influence with whatever meager celebrity they garner. Emporium could have a great affect for animals, environmentally, and another crusade I won't mention for spoiler reasons. Along with Breakers and Fantasy (AND Ridley), I hope, in my humblest of desires, that the love in the characters could be refuge for those who need it. That is what it is meant for.

What is the hardest thing you do as an author?

In my third novel, a protagonist held the dying character in his arms. The dying character was shuddering, trying to mouth his last words as the protagonist gagged his name, clamped him harder, tried to keep him here. He knew he couldn't. Knew he had to respond to the last words. "I know, man. I know."

Here, more than anywhere else (and there were other occasions), I spilled silent, poised tears, hammering away at the keys with equal focus as my face and shirt were drenched. The hardest part, for me, will always be the reality of what we must lose. What we can never keep. Even the things we create, the things that should be untouchable. The hardest part is having to accept, as someone speaking that pulse, how painful the world must be. To ignore this, to fantasize everything in our work, is to dishonor the courage and endurance we weather, the same our characters must, as they are as real as you and me. Luckily, for me, they will always live. One went on before he was even born on the page, I believe. They are like spectral guardians to me, but to you...I only hope they are the same. Otherwise, I could not be you.

As far as the business, beyond the craft itself, the hardest part of writing is reading the lines of print that strip your dreams, the rejections and trying-to-be-gentle criticisms that pierce past any cushion. We work hard every day, breathe, dream, laugh, live, and cry our stories but get little to no recognition for it. After 7 novels, I arrogantly proclaim that I feel like the rocket scientist forced to be a janitor. All my fellow writers reading this understand that devastation. But with every rejection I got, the fiercer I believed in my story. Even J.K. Rowling and Ernest Hemingway got harsh rejections. One day, they'll say, even you got rejected. And you'll be the one making some young dreamer smile, thinking maybe their rejection isn't all that bad.

Do you have a favorite character? Who and why? :)

I have an idea! Why don't you ask me an easy question like which family member I would save in a scorching house fire! It's like Sophie's Choice except I wasn't taken into custody yet for being disabled.

I know and love every character like God knows and loves all His children -- even the villains. Likewise, I believe some part of me is stolen by, or absorbed into, the characters -- even the villains. I see a part of myself in every one of them, extension's of my spirit. In each one, I find a different sort of sanctuary. In Marty there is my comfort and assurance that being disabled does not hinder me from being strong, capable, cool, confident, smug, and devilishly good-looking. In Xander, I am flooded with the relief of his carefree, "she'll be right" attitude that reminds his author to brush off my problems and make Shea-be-alright. In Adam, I find my father and a fairy-tale-like, firefly-lit tenderness. Sandra offers...certain exposure to certain parts of my brain. Tyber is beautiful; the manifestation of my romance and sentimentality. Cazimir -- what DON'T I find in Cazimir? And Peter is the one I miss writing the most, as his spareness, humility, and goodness were so organic and entrenched in my soul (he was my very first main character), I feel like his hands are mine, his breath stops when mine does. I could go on and on.

There is...one, though.

I still don't have a favorite. That is impossible. But...one has become a little more.

I knew this character would die before I even wrote him. He is the one who started it all. It is almost as if he appeared intentionally, as if he needed to stand there before me and make me the writer I am today. I met him in a dream, the one that became my first novel, and since, he has hovered in my life like a guardian. In some ways...I wonder if he is.

I'll let the readers guess which character this is. In my acknowledgments to him, also ambiguous, I wrote, "Though I wrote how you led...you led me."

(I really want to know this one!) What do you look for in an editor? Name some of the most helpful things a great editor can do.

An editor is your FAN first, editor second. In an editor, I want dedication, attentiveness, and engrossment. No, not that the editor is grossed out. But your editor needs to be almost as absorbed and enthusiastic as your story as you. Otherwise, you'll run into frustrations where the author finds the editor is making suggestions that show they were not paying attention to the story, and the author will become defiant and resistant like this:

I know that seems like a tall order-- who can love your book as much as you, right? But if an editor loves literature and loves throwing in their two cents, they'll get excited about a project too. Just make sure you trust and admire their opinion enough to not flick those two cents right into the well.

Once you achieve this in-sync relationship, an editor should be able to tell you when something is amiss in the story before it gets too late; when something doesn't feel right. They need to be the ones who make you re-examine when you need to, in all subjects of character, plot, presentation, and yes, even petty grammar. A lot of times, I'll get an inkling something isn't quite right, but need my editor to check me and make sure -- if not entirely address the problem. Editors are doctors who must treat their author in both conditional and preventative medicine, using their skills to pave the way for yours. They will speak for every reader the author will face and are responsible for not letting the author step out that door without his/her hat on, if you catch my drift. Except neither Laura nor I can reach each other's heads to put on a hat.

To end with: What's the funnest part of your job?

The funnest part of my job is that it is not a job. It is a calling and a part of who I am. Therefore, it is what makes me sigh in a here-we-go way every time I plop down in my wheelchair. It is what grants me the life-sustaining necessity of dignity and identity. Crafting Tyber's compass from cardboard and beads (thank you for your tireless support of the arts, Mom), dressing up as characters, sketching maps and emblems, ordering Ben's dog tag and wearing it around my neck every day, that is all fun. But perhaps the greatest fun is overhearing my dad ENTHUSE about the novels and pore into every detail of the plot, correcting ME sometimes.

Or maybe it's those late nights. The ones where I ignore the clock, pace the tile because I am happy, and grin down at my phone as it lights up with Laura's name vibrating on the top of the screen. Sharing things with her that I will only be able to with her. Letting the stories weave us, and all those who have encountered them, eternally together.

Like all respectable bloggers, I took the unannounced, unplanned recess from my site from October-the end of the Christmas holidays. That means I better start back strong.

Unfortunately, while I knew I had tucked away two draft blog posts, I opened this one, meaning to embark with a philosophical update, but realized I'd forgotten what my intent with this topic was to be.

The origin of the name.

I'm sure I had some deep itinerary for this, but, in a beautiful spin of irony, I am rendered as breathless and bare as you, looking at this picture. The stamp of humanity, screaming its worth even long ago as then.

The picture, whether consciously or subconsciously, inspired this latest excerpt from my current work, the sequel to Emporium.

Once enveloped in the reddish stone, once trapped in the surreal earthen realm, I breathed, almost inaudible, “Oh my God.” It was small, worlds and worlds infinite, voids into thousands of lives. Aborignal artwork surged up the wall, domed us like Xander’s favorite ocean tube – beneath the wave he surfed. Vibrant patterns; natural colors, swirls of tan and brown, boomerang images, kangaroos, all outlined in bold, precise white. And between everything, filling up every space, handprints. Each like a name. A brave statement. A daring stamp to say they existed, were here before us; a life lingering as it fades into somewhere else. Xander studied them all. Hands on his belt. Quiet. That sensitivity, the depth often overlooked touched his face. This place was important to him. He turned to me, slowly, taking me in. But I was speechless. Really. I was. “Xander…” was all I could whisper. Rather than replying, Xander stared at a handprint for an immeasurable amount of time, as if trying to see right through time the flesh that once covered it and the fingertips as they pulled away. Then, a peaceful, decided expression softening his face, he undid the canteen at his side, still not speaking, and wrenched off the cap. He crouched again, and all I could do was watch as the water gurgled down into the rouge, clay-like soil before him, puddling. He was disciplined, pulling the water up to allow it to sink in and then adding more, pulling up just as it would pool. Soon, he had a sloppy patch of raw, slimy mud and he shoveled in his hand, coating it. Entirely gleaming tan, he found a free space upon the cave wall and pressed his palm against it, holding it there for far too long, as if trying to feel more.I am a lover of history.

It was never a move of advantage, of stealth, to approach in the hall my then-future history teacher and Breakers editor, Mrs. Williams, and tell her history was my favorite subject. I remember, in the school library, Mr. Bauer -- blonde-grey hair, kind blue eyes -- stood flipping through the pages of an enormous history book on its plinth, and I expressed the same sentiment to him, a teacher I was never to have."What kind of history do you like?" he'd said in his caring, kind voice.At the time, I knew he taught ancient history, and may have been a bit influenced when saying, "Ancient history.""I like American history," he admitted, turning to me with a sincere, warm regard before looking back at the book.Looking back now, however, I realize I wasn't lying at all. Ancient history is my favorite to study, although I connect with it all.

I love history because of what I don't know.

We see the effects of man, but we do not see man. We see the disastrous, the grand, and, occasionally, the frightening. What we don't see is the father pulling the blanket up the ill child, the legionnaire kissing a lover's token in tears. And it baffles me. That there is even the slightest perception that these people were one bit less intelligent than us. Given their accomplishments with what little they had to work with, they may have ever been smarter. A shower, a shave, and a tie and the homo sapien-sapien caveman will have looked like anyone we see walking head-down over the pavement of Manhattan.

I love history because it is God's story. How humanity has lived with him, without him, lived in pain and in sobbing prayer, lived with the same desires and fears we do to this day. I am amazed at how He has caught all of our last breaths as they sigh from our bodies.

This and the following are photographs from my collection.

Most of you don't know (actually, that's not true. Hi, Laura. Hi, Shannon. The possible only ones reading this -- if anyone else looms, show yourself to assert my authorly little confidence) that I collect old safari photos. The safari theme, of course, is in the spirit of Emporium, but the photos...

I don't have an enormous amount of money. My only real job was with a vet's office, where a dog bit me on my first day because I was nuzzling it affectionately. And I only spend my own. But to me, besides spending it on my friends and family unexpectedly, almost nothing is more worth the price than these old photos. I will sit there for hours, collectively, with a magnifying glass studying the photos, wondering their names. In my hand I hold a piece of history no one will ever see. A window into the eyes of those who are almost certainly not with us any more. That is also why I collect antiques. Not for the oddity of the item itself, but for the fact that someone actually touched it. A glimpse into someone's life no one will ever know.

And another. Hunting trip in Burma. Americans.

That is why I love history. For what I don't know.

So, what is the origin of the name? What inspired us, before we could even forge a sword in flame, to christen a calling to someone? To recognize the worth in a soul and give it a name?

I believe this phenomenon was more than convenience of achieving someone's attention. I believe humanity craved names. When we were first aware of ourselves on the earth, just like every other natural thing, we had no REASON to question the wind and the rain and sun, despite the fact that we are intellectually complex creatures. As I said in my previous post, animals don't. But yet we still felt a calling of a Purpose. Still felt a desire for spirit. Before we even knew of God, we knew Him. Just like before we were born He knew us. We knew there was more. Worth.

Maybe that's why those hands were stamped to the cavern wall. Because they deserve to have been.

One more from the same hunting trip.

Well. I still think I had a better post planned before I forgot about what I was going to say, but I hope this one did a decent job on its own. The mystery of the name -- when the practice began, why, how we adopted sounds and vowels into claiming it as our own -- will remain something we may never know for sure.

But like I said. I love what I do not know.

Historically,

S/

P.S. The last of the photos which I could not elegantly drizzle throughout my post:

Manatee hunt in the Congo

Nigel, anyone?

circa pre-1940s

Another from the Burma hunt with the Lisu people; c. 1920s

Hunter. English.

Norman Crawford.

And lastly, this polar bear, who I owe to an amazing stranger who agreed to send me one of the polar bear -- without accepting any of my money. Whoever this stranger is, I nearly teared up from your kindness and the restoration of faith in humanity. He literally didn't think twice. It will be cherished, and I love him from the bottom of my heart. AND if you take a look at the excerpt of Emporium, you'll realize why this photo, and all the photos, are so important to me....*clears throat.*